Seeing is a miracle that begins when we wake up each day. Darkness changes to light and blurred lines become clear. Muted colors become saturated, then fill with life. In spite of daily miracles like this, many of us move through life with our eyes only half open. We see but we don’t fully take it all in. Now and then something piques our interest. In between these moments our vision declines. And the loss is much more than simple sight.

What we see affects us in profound ways. I’m convinced that it isn’t dependent on what sits before our eyes. Rather, seeing depends on who we are. Learning to see is an adventure like no other. As Marcel Proust said, “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.”

Imagine having a vision, which profoundly clarifies and deepens what you already know—seeing what escapes almost everyone else. Imagine that a world you once thought ordinary comes completely alive. Learning to see is about approaching life from a new perspective and rediscovering a wonderment with the world.

From a low vantage point this scene came to life.

You’ve been given the gift of sight and the time to start exercising and expanding this privilege begins now. Whether young or old, we all have the potential to see things anew. Discovering this potential will not only make you a better photographer but might even fill you with new life. I’ve seen it happen to many of my students. They have that unique spring in their step and bright sparkle in their eyes. Equipped with this new vitality, I watch them head out and take on the world. Their trajectory reminds me that true photography isn’t just a profession but a more abundant way of life.

The best poets are tied to the earth. They live regular lives and wear regular clothes. They walk around incognito, yet they look at the world with keen eyes. Whether stuck in a meeting or crossing a city street, they cultivate their observation skills. They look and then look again, knowing that there has to be more.

Their approach to daily life really works. Consider the poet whose hope-filled persistence pays off in subtle ways. Because of her observations she is able to pen extraordinary lines about the seemingly ordinary. These lines could be sparse or full; the power resides in the way they connect. As readers of a poem, we follow the lines and relax our defenses. Like most good songs or stories, their ordinary disguise allows them to sneak past our closed minds and hardened hearts. The words push us to the edge and the result is change. That is the great gift of art. It changes what we know, how we think, and what we see.

Learning to see requires that we follow the poet’s path. It is the poet who reminds me that it’s not what we see but how we see it. As A.A. Milne once said, “Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.” It’s about getting to know the world by looking at it from every vantage point possible; as a traveler, stranger, guest, resident, dog, bird, or turtle. And then, after looking and watching, rather than impose your own story on the scene it’s time to be still and to listen.

By listening we can begin to notice, and then eventually tell more. Sometimes what we hear is subtle and other times the voice may be loud.

John Sexton is a world-renowned photographer who creates images that are deep, quiet, and strong. For the last year, I have left one of his photo books open in my office. Each week I flip one page. In a way, I’ve started to live with these photographs and they have begun to take effect. Even in busy times, these images have slowed me down. When I walk by, it’s as if they speak and ask me to pause.

Throughout the year, I’ve often wondered how it is that John creates images with such voice. One day, I decided to ask him myself. After a few minutes of conversation, everything made sense. John was talking about a photograph of snow-covered trees. He explained that he not only looks, he listens. He said, “I listen to the trees.” It was that key phrase that unlocked the mystery and made everything clear to me.

Listening requires a posture of openness. It requires quiet and calm. I believe that you can listen with your eyes. You see lovers do this all the time. Or perhaps you’ve experienced the opposite. For example, when you’re talking with someone on the phone, you know they are looking at something else. They pretend to be attentive but it’s obvious they are only half there.

By listening we can begin to notice, and then eventually tell more. Sometimes what we hear is subtle and other times the voice may be loud. Either way, seeing requires silence.

The world is restless and full of repetitive noise. If you want to make pictures that stop people in their tracks, become friends with silence and solitude and bring them with you everywhere you go.

At the ocean’s edge, I closed my eyes to listen for the wind and the waves. What I heard was the colorful pebbles under my feet, something I had almost overlooked.

I’ve never been one to wear a watch, but I can still accurately tell the time. After decades of living watch free, I’ve learned how to be mindful of time. In a way, I’ve developed a “peripheral” sense of time. Sometimes this means looking at a cell phone, glancing at the waiter’s watch, examining the time stamp on the parking lot ticket stub, or taking notice of the clock by the front desk at the dentist’s office. Without a watch, I’ve come to realize that time exists around every bend.

Learning to see requires this same type of mindful attentiveness. And becoming mindful is an art. Before you can make good photographs with natural and available light, you have to know what’s there. It means noticing the small details of color and qualities of light. Every location has beautiful light, colors, and context, but not everyone sees them.

If you want to create more compelling photographs, you need to look deeper. The first view, and the first click of the shutter, is often too obvious. Accomplished photographers scour the context looking for the subtle nuance of light, line, shape, and form.

In learning to see, nuance is key. Think of it like Mona Lisa’s smile; it’s the subtlety that draws in hundreds of thousands of viewers each year. Noticing nuance gives you the ability to create photographs that express the delicate shadings of meaning, feeling, and value. In a way, nuance is a signpost for something more.

In the beach town where I live, the tourists think the ocean always looks the same. The locals, especially the surfers, sailors, and fishermen, know more. Their astute observations pick up the nuances, which provide the indications of season, approaching weather, wind, or waves. For those in the know, the subtle differences of the sea are a signpost for more.

One of the first steps in learning to see is widening your eyes and deepening your mindful gaze in search of nuance. In this way you will capture photographs that don’t give it all away. Your photographs will suggest that there is something more and deepen the experience for the viewer.

To create a more subtle and nuanced frame, I focused on the foreground and the rest of the picture became a blur.

Even without taking pictures, carrying a camera enhances life. It provides you with an excuse to pause, to look, to inquire, to talk, and to take notice. We follow in the footsteps of great photographers like Henri Cartier-Bresson, who said, “For me, the camera is a sketchbook.” It allows us to take notes, scribble observations, and deepen what we know and what we will later remember. While it seems like carrying a camera causes the whole world to transform right before our eyes, something deeper is taking place. The change isn’t occurring in the world, it’s happening inside of you.

If you want to learn to see, bring your camera with you everywhere for a specific amount of time. For example, start off by trying it for one week. When you go to sleep, set it on the bedside table. In the morning, pick it up and bring it to the breakfast table. Bring it to work. Take it for a walk. Its presence will open your eyes.

Compose, frame, press the shutter, and create photographs of daily life. Let your camera be part of the flow. Be generous with what you see and let some photographs go. The goal isn’t to greedily snap up everything in sight. Instead, it’s about provoking thought, heightening awareness, integrating your mind and sight. And ultimately, learning to see is about living a more full and wonderful life.

Visual intrigue can be found anywhere—even riding a bus (bottom) or walking through a dark tunnel at night (top).

The strongest photographers shoot a range of subjects, but their internal filter always affects the frame. In other words, how we define what we see and then ultimately display is completely up to us. We have the potential to choose our own filter and fate.

What we choose to see is the result of our own internal terms. With life you have a choice. Even Abraham Lincoln agreed: “Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.” On a larger scale, how we approach the world filters everything that crosses our path. If we are interested in beauty we will find it everywhere. Our filters are not singular but complex. Consider Albert Einstein’s filter: “Out of clutter find simplicity. From discord find harmony; in the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.” It’s no wonder he was able to go so far. The key is to begin to define what filters we carry in our bag. Do we have hope, happiness, beauty, power, irony, dignity, distress, compassion, humanity, or something else? Once you define your filters you will again discover that vision isn’t the result of what’s in front of our lens. It’s what’s inside us that counts.

Regardless of where you live or what you do, carry a camera and compose pictures that tell a story about your life.

Carrying a camera is not enough to fully transform one’s eyes, especially as we grow older and more accustomed to the world around us. As we age some become jaded and their vision is wearied and dulled. Yet think about how a child sees the world. Everything is brand-new.

My daughter Sophia has a big heart and eager eyes. One day I was feeding her in the high chair. I lifted the spoon and raised my eyebrows as I offered her some food. Unbeknownst to me, lifting my eyebrows caused a series of arched wrinkles on my forehead. As Sophia saw this, she kicked her feet and giggled with glee, “Da Da. Rainbows!”

It took a few moments for me to figure out she was referring to my forehead. And to this day, Sophia and now my other daughter Annika love to kiss my “rainbows.” It is their preferred “Daddy kissy spot.” And those rainbows that were once wrinkles have become something new. They are something I will always cherish, especially as I age and they increase in size.

Learning to see requires that we, like my daughters, use new language to redefine the world. Fresh language ushers in fresh sight. Do whatever it takes to pick up some new words. Spend time with kids and listen to them talk. Read a book you’ve never tried. Even better, learn a language and you will gain a new lens to see the world.

Uncertainty is a pro photographer’s secret weapon. It allows one to see with youth-filled eyes. When you take this approach, some will think that you are a bit off your rocker. In fact, now and again people heckle me, asking me why I am taking a picture of this or that. But I say who cares? I will never let visual apathy set in. I want to see things anew. I want to dream big dreams and let my imagination loose. As Miguel de Cervantes said, “Too much sanity may be madness and the maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.”

In a sense, learning to see requires that we become a bit quixotic or naive. Someone who is naive is unlearned, unenlightened, and unconditioned. The Latin root for naive is nativus, which means native, rustic, innate, and natural. I can’t think of a better way to approach the world. You could instead choose to follow some of the antonyms for the word naive: blasé, worldly, and refined. Yet that doesn’t sound like much fun.

Don’t get me wrong, I strongly believe in the value of the higher mind. It is a question of being open or closed, enthusiastic or lukewarm, eager or indifferent. If you want to really see, follow in the footsteps of the world’s best. And the finest photographers I know use their naive, fresh, and eager eyes to create images that are awe-inspiring, memorable, and full of visual impact and surprise.

In photographic circles, the rule of thirds is included in practically every instructional text. The rule states that equal compositional spacing is static and contains less visual interest. In other words, centering the subject in the middle of the frame, or composing a landscape with equal amounts of land and sky, is ordinary.

By moving the subject out of the middle of the frame, you can create more tension, energy, and visual impact. The rule suggests you first use imaginary lines to divide the frame into thirds horizontally and vertically. Next, compose the photograph so that the points of interest are placed where the lines that divide up the frame intersect. In this way, you have the opportunity to create more visual intrigue.

The golden mean is used by artists, architects, and musicians to observe and create symmetrical beauty. In design it has been used for pyramids, skyscrapers, and cars like the modern VW Bug. In nature the golden mean shows up everywhere: the human body, tree branches, flower petals, and seashells.

The golden mean is based on the ratio of phi which is 1.61803399. Mathematicians call this an irrational number because there is no equivalent fraction and its decimal keeps going and never stops.

Did you catch the irony? The rule is based on something that is rationally irrational. And isn’t that the truth with all beauty? Sure, we can use logic to create, deconstruct, and analyze visual appeal. Yet, beautiful is always a mix of mystery and truth.

This is a bit of a stretch, but perhaps we shouldn’t call it a rule. For composing a photograph isn’t just a problem to be solved but a mystery to be enjoyed.

Learning about the rule can expand how you look at the frame. It has the potential to remind you that straightforward and safe composition rarely captivates the mind. Compositional risks can reap great rewards. If you want to learn to see with fresh eyes, begin to study and revel in the mystery of compositions that excite your mind.

A parking garage stairwell that shows the rule of thirds.

When we look at photographs, our mind works hard to make sense of the scene. We like to discover order, line, shape, and form. I believe that visual order does soothe the soul and suggest that there is a higher law. When looking at photographs the eye asks, “Which way should I go?”

It is the photographer’s task to direct the flow of the eye. When most people approach a scene they breathe deep and take it all in. The photographer goes a step further, wondering how she can make sense of it all. It becomes a question of how to organize the scene and what to include. Or put another way, as Susan Sontag suggests, “to photograph is to frame, and to frame is to exclude.” Learning to see requires that we limit or view. In limitation we discover that less becomes more. With less in the frame the photographer then needs to direct the view.

I grew up in a small town in Northern California. Our main street had everything—pizza, candy, video games—and we knew exactly where to go. The junior high and high school were located there. The street was like an artery that carried the lifeblood of the town. As a photographer, when I compose a frame I often think of that street and its magnetic pull. It wasn’t the only street in town, but it was the one where you wanted to be.

Learning to see means using the frame to align the lines, shapes, and forms so that the eye knows which path to take. Or at least it knows that there is a way. And if the path has a magnetic pull, the eye will travel on its course again and again.

The rules of composition are helpful, but sometimes the best compositions can be found in the most unlikely locations.

Surfer and musician Jack Johnson says, “The morning light sings and brings new things.” There is something magical about the dawn of a new day. Becoming a photographer requires that we learn to see light in many forms. By understanding light we can share what we see. Photography is a helping craft. It opens other’s eyes to the mystery and wonder of life on planet Earth.

Learning to identify the qualities of light becomes key. By developing a trained eye, you can start to discover spectacular lighting conditions in the most ordinary locations. What I’m talking about is more than simply taking photographs at dawn or dusk.

Rather it is looking for the way light works. Being in tune with light can help you know what photographs you can create. For example, with less light your shutter speed will need to slow down. Then it might make sense to create photographs that capture a bit of motion and blur. Other times, when the light is bright and strong, you can shoot at a fast shutter speed, freezing action in inspiring ways.

You’ll also start to become aware that there is always more light than we first realize. For example, light from the sun bounces sideways off of big white building walls. Or it bounces up off of gray concrete sidewalks. Other times, the savvy photographer is aware that the direct light isn’t any good at all. In these situations, it’s best to look for a location that is indirectly illuminated, yet protected in the shade.

Color matters. It triggers emotions, boosts memory, informs, attracts, aff ects us physically and mentally. Colors have personalities; yellow is optimistic, red is romantic, and blue is cool. There is no such thing as correct color. Color exists in relationship with other colors. It rarely stands alone. If you want to learn to see, it’s helpful to reignite your own relationship with the colors of our world.

The naturalist John Burroughs wrote, “How beautiful the leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.” John reminds us that the colors of fall are beautiful for more reasons than color alone. They bring memories and emotion and remind us of the passing of time. The leaves are exemplary in their grace.

Becoming tuned in to your own thoughts and emotions surrounding colors enables you to see them anew. This connection develops a new sensibility and nuance that will show up in your photographs. Other times, relating to color is as simple as noticing that it is there. One observation will lead to another.

Noticing that shadows are typically blue will make you aware that overcast clouds will cast a blue shadow over your subject. Or that green summer grass or dry yellow wheat both reflect their colors on anything close by. This will make you realize that color never sits still but has a life of its own—color is alive. And learning to become color aware will deepen your appreciation and expand what you see.

Creating compelling photographs requires that we turn up the volume on our color sensory skills.

If you want your life to be an adventure, you have to position yourself so that something eventually goes wrong. In other words, we need to challenge ourselves to stay alive. Otherwise, life will be lived inside an ordinary and dull white box.

How, then, can we create a stunning photograph in an uninteresting and overcrowded scene? How can we change what we see? Here’s my advice: If you want to see outside the box, it begins with a challenge.

In my photography class, I explain that what we do affects how we see, just as rearranging the furniture in your house can heighten what you notice and your creative sense of space. I ask the students to do a physical act of creativity and reflect on how it affects their view. One student decided to wear two different shoes, one on each foot, for an entire day. In her reflection she wrote, “As I walked I couldn’t help but smile. I started to notice more. At first I was self-conscious; then it became fun. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was marching to the beat of my own drum.”

When you find yourself stuck in an overcrowded and uninteresting scene, try something new. Resist the flow of the crowd and make your own way. Spin in a circle, climb a tree, or lie on the grass. Do whatever you need to do in order to subtly act outside of the norm. With your camera in tow, you’ll likely loosen up and uncover new and overlooked sights.

The simple composition and subtle cues whisper like a secret—tell enough, but not too much. Without knowing what’s going on, the viewer is invited to lean in, ask questions, and become involved.

Learning to see isn’t just something we do on the front end of digital photography. Rather, it requires that we develop the skill of evaluating and identifying the results. Selecting and editing our photographs is a profound and critical skill. Anyone can take a lot of pictures, but it takes something special to determine which one is best.

Certain photographs will be easy to identify, as they have instant visual appeal. Others will be more diffi cult to find. To see the photographs with fresh eyes, it can be helpful to let some time pass. I know some photographers who wait a month before they begin their review. If I have the luxury of time, I typically wait a few days. Then, when you begin to review the photographs it is essential to tap into your sense of dignity, self-worth, confidence, and drive. Otherwise the sheer volume of inferior photographs can easily overwhelm.

Next, it’s helpful to actively think what it is that you actually want. Otherwise editing hundreds of photos dulls your senses like channel surfing satellite TV. Determine a few qualities that you want.

Create some criteria for your search. For example, you could take inspiration from Diane Arbus, who once said, “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.” Decide to select the photographs that tell enough but not too much. Create a whole list of criteria and then begin the search.

As you dig through your files, follow your list but also be open to surprise. Many times you will find photographs that will exceed any of your preconceived ideas. When you find good photographs, remember that they will never be good enough.

Even Ansel Adams said, “I strive for perfection but settle for excellence.” When photographs are good, accept them for what they are. Moaning over falling short won’t get you far. Instead, recommit that you can and will do better. That’s the joy of photography—it is never dull and you never fully arrive. The journey is the destination and learning to see is a gift that will help you thrive.

Photographers are an animated bunch. They may or may not make a living at creating images, but they are all enlivened by it. Especially when they’re together. For one particular conference, hundreds of photographers had traveled from all corners of the globe to celebrate their craft. The packed conference hall buzzed with vitality and excitement as they watched multimedia presentations from some of the best photographers in the world. The presentations were choreographed, loud, and exciting.

That is, except for one presentation. It started with a single image on the screen with no graphics or sound. The slide show slowly progressed one frame at a time. At first, it seemed like there was a projector malfunction, as each image appeared slightly dimmer than its predecessor. The photographs just kept appearing darker and darker. What was the deal?

Then it struck everyone. The hall became even quieter as the intent of the presentation sank in. It wasn’t a projector malfunction. Rather, it was a set of photographs by a photographer who was going blind. Everyone knew him and knew about the disease that was causing him to lose his sight. In a poignant way, the dimming photographs chronicled his plight.

The slide show marched on, darker and darker. It was painful to watch. The show ended and the room was completely black. The lights remained off, and in the quiet darkness few eyes remained dry. One day all of us will lose our sight. The surest way to learn to see is to savor what we have now. Savor every marigold, every mountaintop, every cloud, every color, every farm, and every face.